Unappreciated
by whirlwinds of watercolours
Summary: Life was difficult when you were unappreciated.


**Title: Unappreciated**

**Summary: Life was difficult when you were unappreciated.**

**Author: Memento Vivere**

**Rating: T for some swearing and mentions of torture.**

**Word Count: 1005 words**

**Written for: Ultimate Death Eater Contest, Round 3; Minor Character Boot Camp; Character Diversity Boot Camp; Honeydukes Competition: Pepper Imps; School Subjects Competition: Charms.**

**A/N: Many thanks to my beta _VenusInHerHair_, and credits to _Emma Quinn _for spotting out some errors! Please enjoy.**

* * *

It was difficult being unappreciated.

Today was his birthday. His fucking birthday. Not that he cared much for it – the ludicrous idea of throwing a party made him shudder – but at least _some fucking appreciation _would have been nice.

He had attacked and killed the Vance girl with his brother and wife on the Dark Lord's orders today when she was on guard for the filthy Muggle Prime Minister. When he had gotten back from the mission, the Dark Lord had praised Bellatrix and had given a nod of acknowledgement to Rabastan, before dismissing them.

Just like that. Not even a word of thanks, or some sign of appreciation. Of course, with the Dark Lord being… well, the Dark Lord; and himself being a mere Death Eater, he could not exactly force the Dark Lord to show some kind of acknowledgement for his work, but this was not the first time something like that happened. Nor the second, nor the third.

Despite the fact that Rodolphus Lestrange was a highly skilled Death Eater with a wide range of knowledge on all magical aspects – especially the Dark Arts – the constant feeling of being unappreciated had always plagued him throughout his childhood, and even his adulthood.

As a child, their parents always favoured little Rabastan over him. Angelic, sweet Rabastan could do no wrong in their rose-tinted glasses. Whenever something terrible befell the Lestrange family, it just _had _to be Rodolphus's fault.

He had been seven years old, looking after baby Rabastan while their parents went shopping in Diagon Alley. Their House-Elf Minky had died a few weeks ago, and they were in the process of looking for another one. In the meantime, Rodolphus would be the so-called 'baby-sitter'.

He did not mind looking after Rabastan; he was quite curious about him and Rabastan was generally well-behaved, hence there was no need to keep an eye on him like a hawk.

Or so he thought.

When Rodolphus was reading a book about elementary Dark Arts, a loud 'crash' of glass shattering rang through the house. He had looked up from the book, startled, and immediately rushed to the source of the noise. When he reached the site of the accident, he almost fainted from shock.

To his utmost horror, Rabastan had managed to knock down one of the priceless vases in the Lestrange house by crawling up the sofa and reaching for the 'shiny, pretty thing' nearby. His chubby hand had clumsily knocked the vase sideways, sent it rolling across the tea table, before falling off the edge, shattering into a thousand tiny pieces…

His parents had been furious when they came home to find the broken Lestrange heirloom. He remembered them yelling, their faces red with anger as they shouted. He remembered them firing spell after spell at their Muggle neighbours, with the intent to kill in their eyes. He remembered his mother screaming with rage, while his father paced the room moodily.

Worst of all? Their anger had not been directed at Rabastan, but _him._

No, perfect, innocent Rabastan could do no wrong. His parents blamed him for not watching Rabastan carefully and thus causing the catastrophe when he had not done anything at all. What was wrong with reading the Dark Arts? How was he to know that idiotic Rabastan would knock over the stupid vase? Why was it that, after all those times of doing a good job of taking care of Rabastan, he was never rewarded but punished for a trivial accident that was not even within his control?

He had voiced his thoughts out loud, but regretted against it immediately.

That was the first time he endured the Cruciatus Curse.

Pain had shot through his veins, burning every single cell along the way. It was even worse than that time he had sustained a venomous snake bite from playing with Narcissa's pet snake. He had rolled on the ground, screaming – high-pitched like a little girl's.

And they say seven was a lucky number.

What utter lies.

When he went to Hogwarts, he had thought everything would change. He had thought he would finally be recognised for his skill, his talents.

But somehow, he had always managed to fade into the background. When the teachers asked questions in class and his hand shot up, eager to prove his knowledge, the teacher's eyes would somehow glaze over him and pick another student. When he spoke at the Slytherin table, people would not respond or pretend not to hear him. When someone would knock into him during rush hours, they would just continue their way, not even muttering an apology.

In a way, his Hogwarts years were even worse than his childhood years. For one thing, there were thousands of students at school who could admire and respect him, but there were only his brother, parents and house-elf at home. For another, some of the older Slytherins would tease him sometimes, for being 'the Lestrange who was never wanted'.

When he graduated, he immediately went to join the Death Eaters without a single hesitation, eager to prove himself that he was not, as they had put it, 'the Invisible Lestrange'. His parents had betrothed him to Bellatrix Black, a Slytherin in his year, a few months before graduation and they married immediately upon leaving Hogwarts.

However, life did not favour Rodolphus Lestrange. Although he had managed to worm his way into the inner circles of the Dark Lord, he was still the 'Invisible Lestrange'. It was as if he had committed an unforgivable crime in one of his previous lives or something which must have caused bad luck like this.

So here he was, at age forty-three, married to a woman who did not love him back and working for a master who thought he did not exist, with a brother whom everyone thought the sun shone out of his orifice; and sitting alone in a dingy bar in Knockturn Alley on his bloody birthday drinking Firewhiskey.

Life was difficult when you were unappreciated.


End file.
